Wearing Death Like a Cloak
by UnbrokenLoyaty
Summary: John Watson wears death like a cloak. Stats: One shot. No Beta. Not brit-picked. 2am writing spree.


**Wearing Death Like A Cloak**

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John Watson wears death like a cloak

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John Watson was intimately familiar with death. There had never been a moment when he had not known it in some manner. John knows the story of how he first met death from the whispers and broken stories his mother recalled as she faded. A confused Martha Watson, in a moment of clarity, once gripped John and told him the story of the first death, and passed away herself just days later.

There were supposed to be five Watson's, not four. John had been one of two. He shared his mother's womb with his brother James. John's birth went well, but as James followed him, the umbilical cord tangled around little his soft, vulnerable neck. Despite frantic efforts, James never did get to inhale his first or last breaths. John did; he breathed deeply and greedily every breath James missed.

John's second death was far more ordinary, though perhaps more felt. John had a small rabbit (who was not a "_sissy_" pet, no matter what Harry said). One cold night, the local feral pack set to howling fiercely. In the morning, John went out with his daily carrot offering. The hutch coverings were stripped off. Scotch lay stiff and frozen, a look of fear still faintly visible in her posture. John waited until his father had filled in the shallow hole and left before he sat down beside the patch of fresh turned earth. Watson's may not weep, but John felt that soft words and a few tears were acceptable, as his heart beat warm and steady (if strangely sore) inside his small chest.

John's third death was a turning point in his life. John was 16 when he was pulled into an office to face the sight of his hysterical mother. Cesan Watson had been in a fatal car accident. In the days preceding the funeral, speculation ran wild in the small hamlet as to the details of the crash. John ruthlessly shoved down the urge to lose himself in the empty hole his father had left behind. The helpless murmurings and sobs of his mother and the ghost that had replaced Harry, firmed up his barriers. John could mourn when he was alone, when things settled, and could allow himself that _privilege_. For now, he needed his head clear and actions sure as he took care of what must be done. He would stand as a living bridge for them over that tremendous hole.

John watched as his mother started to show signs of early onset Alzheimer's, the confusion and the regression sneaking up, and he dedicated himself to learning all he could. Twenty found John studying medicine and caring for their mother, as Harry spiraled down a dark drain of meaninglessness parties and failed relationships - her own sort of living death.

Years later, John added intentional detachment to his coping repertoire. A medical-surgical internship proved that everyone dies, bodies broke and sometimes nothing could hold that off. You can't mourn everyone (and that sickening wrench could only be given so much attention) or you would break. John didn't break, he stood up and walked onward. It was better -_easier_- to focus on the thrill, the knowledge.

Martha died shortly after John graduated. Her death was a dark void that John never fully remembers. All he knows is that after piecing together enough brain cells, he awoke to a drab world. It was seeing Harry glowing (bright and colorful for the first time since childhood) under Clara's influence that gave John enough stability to realign his world. Crawling away from shadows that smelled of scotch and cheap beer (of holes and pre-Clara), John slowly packed away the anger-hurt-betrayal and assembled himself anew. Martha was free now, no longer chasing a missing half or trapped by a mind that leaked memories and looped inward on itself. All the obligations Cesan had left seemed settled and John's radial pulse was promising a new day.

Yet, John found he no longer could discover pre-hole John. He had grown crooked. He needed a cause, a burden to bear. One day , in late October, John signed the papers that would send him to sands and brothers, to death and metal, to three continents of adventure and to war.

In the field John polished not only his surgical skills, but also his waltz with death. Elbows deep in an 18 year-old's gut, stemming the flow of life, John reversed the dance and took the lead. John battled with death, forcing life to "_stick around dammit_!" Still, like all the rest, John learned the subtle shifts, the soft sighs, and the empty eyes of death in war. Every night John would assess the days. On good days he kept life in his men; on bad ones he lived up to the term "mop," drenched in the blood of child/friend/innocent/brother and replayed their gasping breaths/sudden silence/broken bodies as the synapses in hid brain continued to fire. John slowly became weathered in the deeper-than-bones way that all the "old hands" were. Here, under scorching sun and frozen moon, John learned to weave and wear his cloth of death like a decrypt badge of honor. It was proof of all their lives, of their struggles.

Death had become, if not a friend, a comfortable (known) pressure, when hot, piercing metal rearranged his left shoulder and his life. Alone and "useless," John came his closest to curling up under the sift press of death. He may have finished that bloody incompetent bullet's job, if not for one mad, gloriously brilliant, self-proclaimed sociopath's violent intrusion into his life. With Sherlock, John once again began to weave. This time a tapestry of mystery-justice-adventure-friendship was unknowingly added to the cloth. Blood (hot & excited, slow & content) pumped through his veins. John now had a partner in his dance with death, down alleyways and over roof-tops they flew with joyful abandon.

Then the shade slipped in. The schemes of (he was real!) Moriarty pressed in. John was left watching (**_USELESS_**!) as threads snapped and wonder (love?) crashed and bled out. Never (not even Martha) had death pressed so heavily, so completely, but now John had many years to draw from. Breath stubbornly flowed in and out of his lungs unwished for. The visage of a polished black stone, set with (impossible) a name, was empty, but for the shadowy double mirroring his hesitant touches. John allowed himself a moment of raw desperation and horrid, deep grief. Sher- he deserved at least that much. John came to attention before another fallen comrade (he was _so_ much more), pulling it together (push it down, straighten up, carry on).

Slowly, like many times before, John wrapped this new death into the others, settling it around himself like a solemn, but morbidly comfortable, cloak. The steps of a soldier carried him away from the grave (though not from the absence) out towards the hustle of life.

John wouldn't stop, even if everyone else did. He wasn't sure he even could anymore. (Wrap it closer and tighter.) The familiar, comfortably consistent weight settled just just a bit heavier this time, an old familiar friend John chooses to walk beside.

And, he knows it's not right (Oh God, _a bit not good_). He knows and doesn't care, because it works. John Watson may be broken, twisted, warped even, but he's still standing. Forget right and normal; normal would have him locked away by white walls or six feet under.

No, John Watson wore death like a cloak, and, in return, he survived it all.

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Note: I apologize. I wrote this at 2am on my **_phone_**. I have no idea why I am posting it...


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